


This is Not Writer's Block, Mom, This is Word Block.

by caffeineCrows



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AO3 Tags - Freeform, Advice, Drinking, Gen, Homework, Mommy Issues, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Not Beta Read, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Writer's Block, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26104195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeineCrows/pseuds/caffeineCrows
Summary: ==> Rose: be an eight-year old.You are now an eight-year old Rose. What will you do?-----In which an eight-year-old Rose asks her Mom for some homework help.
Relationships: Rose Lalonde & Rose's Mom | Beta Roxy Lalonde
Kudos: 13





	This is Not Writer's Block, Mom, This is Word Block.

You usually make the effort to keep yourself from leaving your room for the sole purpose of evading your Mother’s collection of wizardly… stuff. You’re not so sure if she filled the house with such items to irritate you or she genuinely likes it, too; you don’t really mind, but it still bothers you sometimes. On the contrary, here you find yourself, in front of her room.

If your friend Dave were to know about this, he would _endlessly_ talk about how ironic it is. How did you know? Well, John told you that one time, Dave decided to perform a monologue from how experts go ‘throwing around geographical comparisons to give us a sense of scale,’ to ‘yes, sir, we are literally under siege by planet fucking Jupiter’ when John told him the history of the huge lake near their house. Fortunately, the rain has caused your internet connection to go worse than it usually is; so even if you wanted to, you won’t be able to pester anyone right away.

You fiddle with the hem of your shirt as you contemplate whether to continue or abscond, not that your Mother intimidates you to some level, but because she might be drunk _again_. She’s been indulging herself in alcoholic beverages up to some extent ever since you can remember, although you never took the courage to ask the reason behind her actions. Your speculations from before lead you nowhere, so you dropped it and decided to normalize the elephant in the room.

Knocking on the door, you decide to let the odds determine whether you proceed or not: if she’s intoxicated, you bid her goodnight (although that’s very unusual of you to do); on the other hand, you ask her for Motherly advice (which is very unusual, too). Judging based on the time of the day; it is more likely that she’s completely under the influence of alcohol, but you wanted to give it a shot—hanging on the thin thread of faith to your Mother, from whom you might have more affection than you care to admit.

A few seconds passed, you declared to yourself that it’s futile. You tell yourself that it’s just as expected: trying to dismiss the lingering sadness and disappointment to the back of your mind. Even though you’ve already got the grip in holding yourself up, the dismay still shows; you went out of your way to get here, after all—plus all the wizardly collectibles that you pretend not to see, because unlike a certain someone, you do not like to use Irony to try to hide your distaste towards your parental figure’s shenanigans. But before you can take a step away, you heard shuffling in the room. You almost crossed your fingers in hope that she’s not drunk, but the woman herself proved you wrong.

“Oh, hello, Rosie dear.” Your Mother greeted as she opened the door, a Martini glass on her other hand. You raised an eyebrow as you eye the glass containing an unusual orange liquid. “Come in, dear,” she says, inviting you to come inside.

She seems drunk, but not _that_ drunk—proving your earlier judgement a bit wrong. Jaspers came down from the sofa and brushed himself against your leg, wanting to be picked up. Mom’s room is ‘neat,’ as you would put it. She offered you one of her velvet pillows as you sit on a sofa, which you accepted, while Jaspers took your Mother’s lap as his throne the moment she sat down.

“Are you busy, Mom?” you study the nightstand where a few bottles are placed. “You seem… occupied.”

She swirled her glass, “no, dear. I’m not doing anything but what I usually do; ‘ya know that,” her eyes fixed on her beverage.

There was a span of uncomfortable silence: you just sitting there with a velvet pillow, and Mom finishing her drink. You watched her as she stood up and filled her glass again, “It’s Mimosa, baby—lower alcohol content. Just a friendly mixture of Champagne and orange juice. You want some, Rosie?” she turned to you with an empty glass on her other hand. “No, thank you. I actua—”

“Okay,” She cut you off and sat on the bed, instead of in front of you, where she was earlier, “if you say so, hun.” She then turned to pet Jaspers on the head, who, after a couple of seconds later, started to purr.

You are starting to think that coming here will lead to nothing. You hugged the velvet pillow to your chest, finally accepting that Mom won’t do anything but offer you her beverages and pet Jaspers all night like usual. You honestly start to think why you came here all the way instead of trying to finish the task all by yourself.

You are so busy listing the reasons you came up with in order to convince yourself to come here and crossing them out with why they’re so stupid or childish, making you unaware that your Mother had sat down beside you, petting your hair gently, “is anything the matter, Rose?” You contemplated again, whether to ask Mom or to take the leave. She’s still holding her beverage, but her attention is now on you. “Rosie, what’s bothering you?”

You decided to give it a shot.

“I,” you started, “I can’t seem to find the right words to use for a task.”

The heavens roared as the rain poured heavier, causing Jaspers to leave the bed and snuggle between your legs. Mom looks taken aback; maybe it’s because you never really ask her for things that seem ‘motherly’—if asking for a little advice is considered ‘motherly’; or it’s just the alcohol. You watched her as she emptied her glass and put it down on her mattress, thinking if this is already a sign to go. Her expression softens to a small, warm smile as she scooted to remove the few-inches distance between the two of you, “w- _hic_ -hat task, bebi?”

You then turned to the black cat between your legs, who looks so comfortably curled on the floor, “the teacher at school gave us an assignment: write a two-hundred-word essay about our favorite memory—” sighing, you picked the feline creature and pet his head, just like your Mother was doing seconds ago, “but the thing is, Mom, I am having trouble putting the words together to properly express my thoughts.”

“D’awww,” Mom cooed, making you look at her with a hint of confusion: is she mocking you? No, why would she do that? You mean, she asked you what’s wrong so she must be sincerely wants to help, right? But what if this is one of her cruel ironies—wait, what even is ironic in this situation? “Writer’s block, hmmm?”

You know what you will write, but cannot find the right words for it. You’re not running out of ideas—just the words to string together to knit a narration proper enough to your eyes.

You blinked twice, then nodded. “Ya’know, Rosie, writing takes a looooot of effort,” she said, picking her glass, “look here.” She then brought the glass near to your face, “what do you see?”

“A glass.”

“And?”

“A Martini glass?”

Mom pouted. “No, Rosie, look carefully.”

You looked at her and then to the glass, then at her, then to the glass again, then at her. She’s just looking at you, still a warm smile across her face—either by delight or booze. You examined the Martini glass—it looks like a funnel, but thinner, without the smaller hole, and shinier. It’s definitely heavier than the scientific instrument. You looked at different angles, but all you see is an empty glass.

“What,” you breath. This time, she’s definitely making fun of you. You snap at her, “Mom, is this one of your cruel ironies or are you befuddled enough to think that there’s something special with this glass? Because this is exactly just like all the other glasses in our kitchen—it’s just a cocktail glass!” You finished with a higher tone than intended. There were a few seconds of nothing but the sound of the thunderstorm outside. When you heard a sigh, you took that as a cue, “I think I’m leaving, goodnight, Mother.”

“This is _my_ glass; I don’t see why it can’t be special just because it’s just like any other glass in our home.”

You stand up—she grabbed your hand, stopping you from leaving, “no, Rose,” she breathed in, “you misunderstood. Or I did not make myself clear, haha.” She awkwardly laughs then proceeded to lead you across the room, by the window where droplets of rain competed who gets to the bottom of the windowpane first. “I meant” she slowly lifted the glass again to your face “—look _through_ the glass.”

Now that makes more sense. “Now, what do you see?” You took the glass from her, and did as you were told. You first focused on your Mom, who now looks shinier because of the glass; then to the bed, then to Jaspers, “everything’s the same, but it looks brighter, albeit a little blurred; it’s like… everything is a little shiny—more appealing to my eyes.”

“Did you see things from another perspective?”

“…Yes.”

“If you ran out of ideas of what to write, you look around—observe. The tiniest detail of your environment can spark an idea; you just have to look at it in another way, okay?”

You nod.

Mom nodded and took the glass from your hands, “okay, now - _hic-_ look outside.” She points to the window.

“It’s raining.”

“And how does the weather affect the scenery?”

You can usually see the stars from any window in your house, but with the rainclouds covering the sky, it’s darker. The heavy rain also makes the lights from the houses in the distance hard to see. You think that even with the glass, it won’t be a little lighter—but the shade of black definitely will. A flash of lightning then slashed across the sky, illuminating the entire view for a second and a half; then a roar of thunder followed.

“It’s dark—darker than usual.” You pressed your hand against the window glass. The window in room is way smaller than this one, as large as a door; so, you never really get to see the outside like a cinematic theater. Of course, there are windows larger than this around the mansion; if you would only go out of your room and look—in which you don’t. “The flash of lightning provides a good light once in a while. The thunders could startle anyone out there but—” you retracted your hand, “it’s peaceful. Some might say scary, but to me, it brings peace.”

“I only asked you how it affects the scenery but okay.” She looks outside, too, “You already have your words.” She also pressed her hand against the glass for a second, “you don’t really have to know all the words to express how you feel—if you find yourself lacking of some mumbo jumbo letter combination, just use what you have and spiral all the way down; then the words will find you.”

“It’s not only the words, Mom.” You look at her hand holding the cocktail glass, “I also want the sentences to be right. I want them to make sense.”

“Well, Rosie, perfection comes when you train yourself: if you want to have perfect grammar and spelling and mastery of the English lexi or whatever language you like, you gotta practice—read and write and speak and listen and interact.” She gives you her glass. “All children struggle to string the words of their first language, but they get to fluently use it overtime.

“And besides, there are literally rules written like guidelines or whatevs in books - _hic-_ ‘bout how to write and speak; there’s also the internet. You can look it up.” Mom continued, “you don’t have to make them understand everything the way you understand things; the fact is that we simply can’t—there’s _soooo_ many factors. You may sound dumb and irrelevant, but the truth is, the things you give them does not measure your worth. It is not intellect that is used to measure one’s worth, darling.”

You remained silent.

“But if it’ll satisfy you, I don’t see why not.” Mom placed a hand on your shoulder. “You know, Rosie - _hic-_ the rain isn’t _that_ bad; yes, it will get some stuff wet and mu- _hic-_ mud will be everywhere, but on the other hand, the cold that comes along with it makes people want to cuddle up and share warmth: a reminder that whatever happens—even when you think that you’re better off alone, you’ll - _hic-_ never be able to shake off the longing.” You look at her. “You’ll always know how warm it is to be with someone—physically or not.”

You don’t really know how this will help you with your ‘writer’s block,’ but Mom’s words tonight feel warm. “Uhm.”

Mom retracted her hand and sat on the bed. “Read a diction- _hic-_ nary, bebiiiiiii.” She let herself lay down, “search the we- _hic-_ web.” You stare at her as she hug another velvet pillow. “Read a di- _hic-_ tionareeey, or any book. There’s tons of books in the library.”

“Mom, the paper is due tomorrow,” you remind her, “I don’t have time to go to the library tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow, dear.” She turns her back to you, “now. The basement is filled with books. That’s where I keep all the books at.”

“We have a basement?”

“Mhmm.”

“And you never told me?”

“You never asked.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, “then I shall make my way down there and read, just as you said.”

As you open the door, your mother spoke with eyes closed, “if you can’t find a word suitable for your expression, make one—that shaking pear guy invented so much when nothing satisfied him.”

You looked at her, “shaking pear guy?”

“The one who - _hic_ \- writes tragedies for fun.”

“Shakespeare.”

“Whatever his name is.” Jaspers joined her in bed.

You took the liberty to turn the lights off and hesitantly, you say, “goodnight, mom,” to which she replied with “goodnight, sweetie.” Then you proceed and closed the door.

The trip to the basement and back to your room was quick, just as you intended (still avoiding the wizard statues). By the time that you finished your paper, the thunderstorm had already subsided, but the temperature remained low.

You trudged your way to your unmade bed, thinking that you should get some books of your choice from the basement and stock them here. You look around the square room, seeking a good place where a bookshelf will fit—you eye the space beside the door; now that’s a good place: you can easily access it whether you’re in bed or by the study table. You let yourself plop down and covered yourself with a blanket.

Maybe you will proofread your work tomorrow, since it’s late and you’re tired. You really hope that your writing skills catch up to your vision—or makes sense, at the very least.

You snuggle more into your covers, feeling comfortable warmth.

_Warm._

You remember your Mother’s words, and it became the lullaby that cradled you to sleep that night.

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically practice for english writing because i am a little intimidated by my english teacher.


End file.
